


playing on, insane

by aeridi0nis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), M/M, Marauders, OR IS IT, Past Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Post-Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Remus Lupin Angst, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Sad Sirius Black, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Angst, i dont know how much comfort there is now im thinking about it to be honest, i guess?, very brief implication of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29781633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeridi0nis/pseuds/aeridi0nis
Summary: Oh, Moony, he thinks, and it catches him off guard, to feel something so strong, stronger than he thought himself capable now. It’s guilt and sadness and maybe love, he can’t be sure. Oh, Moony. We left you all alone.***Sirius lies low. Remus lies lower. Twelve years is a very long time.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	playing on, insane

**Author's Note:**

> uh yes okay this is just a tad more angst before i post the happy thing ive written. happy things are HARD. there's not much plot to this, i suppose you could consider it just various snapshots of this portion of their lives? title and lyrics are from 'mary' by big thief - it's an absolutely beautiful song so man even if you don't dig my writing go check the song out, i swear. enjoy! leave a comment if you do, they absolutely make my week :)

and my brain is like an orchestra: playing on,

insane.

will you love me, like you loved me?

in the january rain?

***

Sirius died.

In Remus’ head, when James and Lily had. Halloween. They’d all died, some part of Remus died, and Sirius had died too. He was a dead thing for so very, very long, and looking back maybe it helped. It had helped to tell himself he was dead because he was confident that Sirius would stay that way, and then one day Sirius _would_ die, in prison, and maybe Remus wouldn’t hear about it but it couldn’t matter either way because by that point Remus would’ve long since mourned him. Things are just easier when everyone is dead.

Of course, it was never going to be so simple. Trust Sirius Black to come back to life.

Remus doesn’t try to talk to him. Not for very long. It’s difficult to keep conversation up against Sirius’ nods and shakes, his grunts. Remus takes the hint. His plan is pretty much just to follow Sirius’ lead.

Sirius never was one for talking, anyway, so it’s not a massive surprise that he shies away from it now. It’s so much, even for Remus to comprehend. So much time, space, stretched between them. Sirius used to want to laugh; he wanted to shout and scream sometimes, to throw things. Watch them shatter, watch them strike. He often wanted to speak, but he rarely wanted to talk. Remus does not blame him for not wanting to start now.

He tries not to blame him for any of this.

Remus is tired, too.

He doesn’t try to talk to him.

***

Sirius doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t much want for anything, anymore, to be honest, but talking is the least of it. Come to think of it, perhaps it’s easier to determine all the things he doesn’t want: he doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this again. Doesn’t want.

He did think Remus might try, though. He’s the most emotionally repressed person Sirius has ever known, but he always seemed to think that talking – unless the topic was himself - could fix things. Maybe it would’ve fixed them; they never managed it.

Remus thought it useful to discuss things. Sitting down and spreading out the situation between them like a map ( _oh,_ Sirius tells himself then. _Not now, not now_ ), smoothing out the creases with words. Remus was always so logical and precise, careful and calm, calm to the point of indifference, infuriatingly so. Sirius remembers the way he used to talk with his hands, when he was excited or angry or frustrated: all frantic gestures, a conductor before an orchestra. His hands would still be talking when his mouth was finished, and this memory is fond. Sirius almost smiles.

The night he left – and it really _was_ a mission, Sirius now understands – Remus had tried to discuss things. Sirius had been convinced, though, had convinced himself: _traitor,_ he’d decided. _Cheater,_ he’d said too, even though he didn’t really believe that part. He had just wanted to hurt Remus. He hadn’t been brave enough to do it until Remus had already left, but Sirius had thrown a bottle at the place where Remus had stood. They had had a lot of bottles lying around, by then. Even now he remembers the satisfaction of that, it isn’t a memory they ever did manage to drag out of him. Probably because it wasn’t happy. He had smiled when it smashed, though.

Remus is not talking now and Sirius is relieved. He hasn’t given him anything to talk to, so he supposes it would be naïve to think Remus would just keep trying, trying, trying. Everyone has their limits.

Well, whatever. It’s not like Remus is, ever has been, as open book himself. He always was very good _discussing_ until the discussion was about himself, and then he’d go all quiet, stoic, blank. First it made Sirius sad, to think that Remus didn’t think he was worth talking about, worth the fuss. Then, later, it made him angry. He grew tired of Remus always acting the martyr, as if he didn’t have a choice. It was bullshit and Sirius told him so. Now, it doesn’t make Sirius anything at all.

Remus doesn’t try to talk to him, and it has to be for one of two reasons, or both. First, because it would involve talking about himself. Then, if it’s not that, Sirius concludes that perhaps Remus has just finally given up on him.

Good. About time.

***

“You’ll take my room,” Remus explains, when Sirius first arrives. He turned up about ten minutes ago, just as not-dead as he’d been on that night at Hogwarts. Remus has yet to find the courage to look him in the eye; he’s afraid of what he’d see staring back. So, instead, he just shows him around. There’s not much to see. Remus shows him his bedroom, which, as he tells him, will now be Sirius’.

“I’m alright on the sofa,” Sirius replies. His voice is gravelly, rusty with disuse, posher than Remus remembered. “It’s fine as a dog. I’ve slept in worse places.”

Remus doesn’t care, nor does he want to know about all the bad places Sirius has slept in. “No,” he says. It comes out firmer than intended. This is his house, unfortunately, and he’s not letting Sirius sleep on the sofa. He’s not going to be responsible for that, for treating Sirius the way everyone else has. Sirius _isn’t_ a dog. He just looks like one, sometimes. So no, he won’t let Sirius sleep on the sofa. That won’t be on him.

They’re standing in the doorway of the one and only bedroom in Remus’ drab little cottage. Sirius has been in Azkaban for twelve years and yet Remus is still embarrassed, embarrassed that Sirius is seeing all of this. All this time, and nothing to his name, not even a job anymore. Worse than nothing: this house. It’s all the more embarrassing for the fact that he’s been trying, all this time. And this was still the best he could do.

“No, you should, erm. Take the room. An actual bed. It’s not..not the most comfortable, but, erm...” He sighs. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

“Just take the room, Sirius. I’ll take the sofa.”

Sirius apparently decides this particular argument isn’t worth it, and just gives a short, slight nod, dark hair falling over his eyes. A younger Sirius would have resented the streaks of silver in it, but then again, a younger Sirius would have resented all of this.

“Alright.”

Remus isn’t stupid. He was never going to let Sirius take the sofa, and he definitely wasn’t ever going to expect them to share. He just thought the conversation would go on longer than that. He wouldn’t have had anything to say, if it had.

***

 _Oh, Moony,_ Sirius thinks, when he steps into the cottage. He’s prone to forgetting that things didn’t stop, when he went to prison. That Remus lived all twelve of those years, too. Well. Survived them, that is. They’re _survivors,_ now. The ones left standing. What more could they ask for?

When Sirius first went to prison he had comforted himself with the notion that perhaps Remus wasn’t alone. That someone had found him and was looking after him, if it couldn’t be Sirius. Patching him up after the full moons, asking if he wanted sugar in his tea (no, he doesn’t). Talking to him about muggle books and taking care of things when Remus was too ill to get up. Making him eat. Making him sleep. Making him throw away those old jumpers that he’d keep even when he’d worn the elbows thin. It feels safe to assume, here, in the entrance to Remus’ home, that that has not been the case.

 _Oh, Moony,_ he thinks, and it catches him off guard, to feel something so strong, stronger than he thought himself capable now. It’s guilt and sadness and maybe love, he can’t be sure. _Oh, Moony. We left you all alone._

***

Sirius spends a lot of the time – most of the time – as Padfoot, skulking about the house, watching Remus with big, grey, doleful eyes. He also spends a lot of time in his room. At first, Remus isn’t sure how he feels about that. Later, he realises that what he feels is relief.

***

Remus makes them both breakfast, the first morning Sirius is there. If Sirius doesn’t want to eat it, that’ll be fine, but Remus gives him extra everything, because he so obviously needs it. Sirius used to like bacon a lot, Remus recalls. Wait. Shit. No. Was that Peter? Perhaps he doesn’t recall after all. Well, he doesn’t have to eat it if he doesn’t want to. Remus isn’t his mother. Good god, Remus is not his mother.

Hogwarts wages haven’t completely dried up yet – Remus spent the past year making sure of this – so he’s able to ensure they actually have some decent food in. If Sirius notices how much fuller his plate is than Remus’, it isn’t commented on.

Vaguely, the act of it reminds Remus of being back at school, when James would push extra food onto his plate when he wasn’t looking. Remus did comment, then, and James would say that he should compensate for his lack of appetite around the full moon. When Sirius pointed out then that James wasn’t Remus’ mum, he’d pretend to be shocked and say something like _really? Are you sure? Oh, no, but look here, he’s got my eyes, haven’t you darling?_ And then he’d pinch Remus’ cheek and Remus would bat his hand away and tell him to sod off as if he wasn’t laughing anyway, and unless he really was feeling awful he’d probably eat whatever James had smuggled him.

Memories like that are how Remus knows that the past does not stay put, the same way dead people do not always stay dead. The past is not fixed just because it has become the past, and events can still be tampered with, even after they’ve happened. Memories are alterable, fluid, and in that way they’re dependent on the present. Things can be remembered differently by the same person, he understands now. That memory is not a sad one. Now, it makes him ache.

He’s actually surprised when Sirius comes out of his room and eats with him. He would’ve understood if he hadn’t. They don’t say anything during, and perhaps the only thing that could’ve been more unbearable was if they had. Sirius says “thank you,” though, when he’s finished. He offers to help clear up but Remus tells him he’s got it covered, so Sirius mutters “alright,”, and when Remus turns around to say something more all he finds is Padfoot, slinking away.

He kicks himself for that later. He should’ve let him help. Sirius probably wanted to feel useful. Maybe he’ll ask again next time. They don’t talk until dinner.

***

Huh, Sirius thinks, when they sit down to breakfast. He looks at Remus’ plate, and then at his.

Huh.

Remus has pulled a James. Does he remember that, when they were back at school?

James, who should be here instead. Instead of Sirius. Instead of Remus. James, who isn’t, because he’s dead. It’s the first time he’s let himself think about him in a while.

Sirius doesn’t mention it. He eats his breakfast, thinks about how long it’s been since he’s had bacon.

***

Days pass in this manner, circling each other. Things ebb and flow. Some days, inexplicably, Sirius is in a worse mood than others. Remus tries to just ignore it, ignore Sirius’ face, dark and glaring. Ignore Padfoot staring at him from the sofa, thumping his tail steadily. He snaps at Remus on days like this; Remus lets him.

“Are you hungry?” Remus will ask. He knows that isn’t what’s wrong: Sirius is bored. He feels trapped and he is, even venturing into the front garden is a risk. These aren’t Remus’ rules, but he feels responsible all the same.

“No.”

“Are you sure? I can make, erm,” and then Remus opens the fridge and frowns. “Something.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sirius replies, irritated. “I’ve already told you.”

Remus sighs, leans against a kitchen counter. He can see the back of the sofa from here, can see the top of Sirius’ head. “What can I do, then?” he demands, a little sharp.

Sirius stands, turns abruptly, eyes narrowed. “You can stop treating me like a child, like the rest of them,” he snaps. “It’s fucking unbearable.” And after that he retreats to his room, and Remus closes the fridge.

Sirius has always liked having something to blame. Someone to blame. Back at school, it was Snape. There’s only two of them in the house, though, and Remus knows what that means.

Sirius needs someone to snap at, or he’ll just snap. Remus supposes this way he can at least be of some use.

He takes to leaving a window open. Always, to remind Sirius that this isn’t prison, though maybe it feels like it, to him. There’s little more that Remus can do about that. Sirius shouldn’t really be leaving, on Dumbledore’s orders.

 _See?_ The window says, anyway. _I won’t be the one to keep you here._

***

Sirius always regrets it, afterwards.

***

The full moon is tomorrow night. In Azkaban, Sirius had tried to keep track, but days and nights melted into each other and he’d lost track quickly. He’d never forgotten about it, but he hadn’t been able to count, to date them. He’s picked the habit back up since that night at Hogwarts, using that full moon as a pushing off point. He doesn’t dare mention that particular moon to Remus.

Even without that night, he can tell just from looking at him. Today, Remus is all grey skin and dark circles under his eyes, jittery and restless. Sirius remembers making him paper chatterboxes to fiddle with when it got bad at school. He remembers holding Remus’ hand when they were alone, and how Remus would drum his fingers against Sirius’ knuckles, and then he wishes that he hadn’t remembered anything at all.

He finds himself longing for it and it scares him.

Here, now, after breakfast, Remus is fidgeting with his cutlery. It’s making scraping sounds against the plate. Sirius knows he can’t help it, that he’s probably indulged the habit over all these years – not as if anyone’s been around to be annoyed by it. It annoys Sirius and he doesn’t say anything, but Remus notices his eyes lingering on his hands and he drops his knife anyway, instead clenching his fist.

It’s no use waiting for Remus to bring up tomorrow’s moon, obviously. If he does then it won’t come up until it’s too late for Sirius to argue back, till he’s halfway out the door.

Sirius studies him. He looks tired, wearied, and Sirius knows he probably looks just as bad. What a pair they must make. What would James make of them, now?

In the spur of the moment, back in the shack, they’d hugged. Sirius can’t believe that really happened. What were they thinking? Nothing at all, if he recalls correctly. How strange, how bodies communicate without minds to inhibit them. Touching Remus now feels out of the question. He is entirely intangible.

That makes him sad.

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Sirius states. Remus looks at him. Something he hasn’t been doing very often.

“Yes.”

***

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Sirius says, from the other side of the table, and Remus freezes.

He remembered?

He’d been doing so well at ignoring it all, but now something in Remus surges, swoops, freefalls. _Oh, how I’ve missed you,_ Remus thinks, unprompted. _How I miss you, now._ He wasn’t prepared for this, it’s taken him by surprise, this sudden pain. It isn’t affection but it feels close and Remus wants to cry.

 _I miss you,_ is what he wants to say. “Yes,” is what he says.

***

Sirius figures that “where are we going?” is the best way to put it. Don’t ask about the other thing – say it like it’s been decided. It obviously doesn’t work, but he tries it anyway. At least it immediately lets Remus know where he’s at.

“There’s a cellar below us,” Remus informs him, watching him steadily. There’s a firmness to his tone, a finality that Sirius chooses to ignore.

Sirius frowns even though he isn’t surprised. “You don’t go to the woods?”

Remus folds his hands together, unfolds them, lays them flat on the table. “It isn’t safe if I’m alone.” He’s choosing his words carefully, Sirius can tell. “Besides, I don’t think I could apparate back without splinching.”

Sirius sees the word _alone_ as a challenge. He rises to it. “Well I’ll be there, and I’ll take you back by side-along.”

Because Sirius doesn’t care if they can’t touch or talk or look at each other. The wolf doesn’t know about any of that, and it doesn’t need to, and even if everything else has changed completely, this hasn’t. They can figure out the rest later. This is a matter of practicality – he never even considered letting Remus go alone. He has a lot of moons to make up for.

He wants out, too, that he can’t deny; he wants to be outside in the forest just as much as the wolf does. He’s desperate for it. That isn’t the point, though, of course.

“No,” Remus says, predictable, staring at his hands. “It isn’t safe.”

“I’ll keep you under control, I wouldn’t let you do anything stupid. We’ll go somewhere remote, where did we used to – Galloway. We could go to Galloway.”

“You aren’t enough on your own,” Remus insists. Context should mean that comment doesn’t hurt, but it still does.

“You couldn’t control me back at Hogwarts, when…the night with Peter. You aren’t enough.”

 _Stop saying that_ sits on Sirius’ tongue. He swallows.

“That was different, you were agitated, the wolf was angrier. It’s just because the kids were _right there_ —”

“Exactly. I almost killed someone. Multiple people.” Remus drags a hand down his face, sighs. “It isn’t safe.”

“Don’t you have that—that thing you take now, anyway? The wolfsbane. There won’t be anyone there this time, there’s no one you could hurt—”

“I could hurt _you!”_ Remus snaps, voice raised, gesturing at Sirius angrily, frantically. So reliably Remus it’s almost comforting. “And I don’t—don’t have any wolfsbane. The agreement depended on my placement at Hogwarts, I’m going to contact Severus, I haven’t managed to sort out…I just don’t have any this month. It’s too late now anyway. And you aren’t meant to be, erm. You aren’t meant to be outside anyway.”

“Then Padfoot can sit in the cellar with you,” Sirius offers, deliberately missing the point.

“I could kill you.”

“You won’t,” Sirius asserts, leaning forward. This is the most words they’ve exchanged since he arrived, he realizes. Remus cocks his head.

“And you know that…how? Why do you think you know more about how this works than I do? It’ll hurt you, Sirius. It won’t understand why you’re there when you weren’t before, haven’t been for _so long_ —”

“—And that’s my fault, now? Forgive me for being unavailable, Remus, but you see, I’ve been ever so slightly occupied, what with being in prison for mass murder and all,” Sirius cuts in. It’s childish and unfair and it isn’t the point and he says it anyway.

“That is neither what I said, nor is it the point,” Remus says slowly. He’s looking at Sirius again. “It doesn’t understand, alright? It doesn’t know what happened, it can’t be reasoned with. It’ll smell you and it’ll remember and it’ll get aggravated, because then it’ll want the others, too, and it _can’t_ have the others, and then it’ll probably kill you, given the chance. I’ve been on my own for a very long time, Sirius. I don’t..I don’t know how to navigate _this_ ,” he waves his hand at the space between them, “yet. I can’t expect the wolf to. I don’t trust myself to know how it’ll react.”

The martyr act again, it would seem. He’s probably been doing it all this time, Sirius thinks. Of course he has. There’s been no one around to call it bullshit.

“From the looks of you,” Sirius says finally, “it can’t react much worse than it already does.”

Sirius looks at Remus, with too many grey hairs and lines for someone their age, drawn, too many scars, silver and white and crisscrossing his face, hands, neck, like someone’s scribbled out a mistake. He looks at the way his jumper hangs off of him, loose. He looks at Remus and feels strangely and familiarly protective and decides his statement is true.

It’s worth a shot.

“Come on, Moony.”

It’s part instinct, too. He’s been fighting it ever since he got here, but now the nickname tumbles out onto the kitchen table between them, a regurgitation. Gross and perhaps a little indecent but it’s been clinging to the back of his throat _ever since he got here._ He’s been desperate to cough.

He didn’t intend to use it for this.

Remus stares at him for a long time. He turns his head to the side, exhales, fixes his gaze upon a bare wall. Sirius sees his throat working but for a while there’s silence, until, quietly, he mutters.

“It isn’t your decision to make.”

***

The full moon is tomorrow and they argue about it. Remus looks at Sirius, all sharp angles and gaunt cheeks and skeletal, shadows where there shouldn’t be. The hair that he used to take so much pride in is wiry, unruly. He knows this isn’t the same boy who used to be permanently grinning, smirking, but it’s all the worse for the fact that there’s still _something._ Still something of him in there, that man he loved, or loves, or knew, or knows. Remus catches whispers of him, he’s there in the turn of Sirius’ head, the twist of his mouth. He’s still so handsome, which is cruel. Sirius isn’t a complete stranger now, he never could be, and somehow it’s worse. Oh, what was the word Freud used? _Uncanny._ Sirius is uncanny. So awfully, deafeningly familiar. Maybe he really is a ghost.

But he’s not, and Remus knows this. Somehow, Sirius Black is just as flesh and blood as the rest of them, and so Remus knows that the wolf could destroy him, tear him to pieces. It wants to destroy something, someone, and Remus isn’t going to let it be Sirius. He still gets to make that decision, and he makes it. He’s made it.

The full moon is tomorrow night and today they argue and Sirius calls him Moony and it is quite possibly the most pain Remus can remember being in for quite some time. It’s the best day they’ve spent together so far.

***

Sirius has a nightmare. He doesn’t remember it when he wakes up in Remus’ bed but he knows he’s had one because he’s crying and shaking and his back is cold with sweat. Ah, fuck.

Breathe in, breathe out. He’s grown accustomed to them by now. His life hasn’t exactly been lacking for nightmare material, after all. He wonders if this was Mother, or the war, or Azkaban. It doesn’t really matter.

He used to scream, when he had them at school. Those ones were courtesy of Mother, the dear. It was always awfully embarrassing, because he’d wake everyone up, it’d take ages to convince them to back to sleep, because _really,_ he’s _fine._

Sometimes, when the others went back to bed, Remus would stay. He’d sit in Sirius’ bed with him, in the dormitory of their teenage years, and he’d never say much, but he’d stay. Wrap his arm around Sirius while he settled into sleep again, stroke his hair, kiss his temple, return to his own bed before morning.

Maybe Sirius did not scream tonight, but he wishes he had. He wants again; suddenly, all-consumingly, childishly. He tries to go back to sleep.

What have they become?

***

Remus isn’t awake when Sirius emerges the next morning. Seeing him there, he feels absolutely awful for not insisting Remus take his bed back last night. The sofa is too small (or Remus is too tall, he always has been). Sirius should’ve never agreed to take the bedroom, should’ve slept here as a dog.

Sirius glances around the living room aimlessly. There’s a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner that he noticed before, but never investigated; he sees now that they’re filled with books. Obviously. He smiles, albeit muted. It’s been over a year since Remus returned from Hogwarts, but Sirius hasn’t seen a bookcase in the house anyway. It doesn’t matter. They won’t be here forever, either of them. Things will stop being the way they are eventually.

(They have to, Sirius reasons. They have to because he can’t see himself carrying on any other way.)

Remus is on the sofa, asleep, threadbare blanket over him. Sirius’ fingers itch to adjust the places where it’s fallen off of him but Sirius is acutely aware of the fact that that is not who they are anymore. Not what they are. But _oh,_ Remus looks younger when he’s asleep, and Sirius can almost recognize him like this. He stands over him for longer than he should, watching. _Oh, Moony._ Breathe in, breathe out.

He leaves Remus asleep as long as possible, and isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, so he just shuffles around the house, opening cupboards he shouldn’t, looking for something to do. There’s a window left open in the kitchen that Remus keeps forgetting to close, and Sirius stands there for a while, gazing out at the countryside, the other cottages in the distance which all look better kept than the one they’re in. It’s a nice view, but what’s nicer is the fresh air. He’s grateful for it.

Most of the cupboards are empty or might as well be, including one that Sirius is deeply worried may be Remus’ medical cupboard. He considers reading one of Remus’ books, but decides he better leave those be. Finally, he seats himself on an uncomfortable armchair opposite the sofa, turns into Padfoot, and waits.

***

“You should’ve woken me up,” Remus mutters, embarrassed, when he realizes it’s three in the afternoon and Sirius has been left to fend for himself. He chides himself for that thought, reminds himself what Sirius had said before. He’s not a child. It’s probably for the best that he overslept, anyway. He feels awful; it won’t be long now. The moon is already pulling at his bones, and for all his reluctance, they respond eagerly.

The dog on the armchair watches him for a moment longer, and then it becomes a man.

“You looked like you needed it,” Sirius replies, shrugging. How long has he been sitting there?

Remus sits up and his joints complain as he does it. He winces, and perhaps Sirius frowns. “Have you eaten?” he asks, yawning. Sirius says yes and Remus doesn’t believe him but he also doesn’t press it.

“How do you feel?”

Remus should be the one who asks this, but he’s not, which irritates him. It isn’t him they need to be worrying about. His years don’t, can’t compare to Sirius’. He aches and it’s not because of the moon, drags a hand down his face.

“Fine,” he mutters. Now they’re both liars. Sirius tilts his head like a dog, his expression curious.

“You’re lying. It’s me, Remus,” he says quietly, and maybe there’s a tone of pleading to his voice, or maybe Remus invents that. They look at each other; overcast-grey eyes sadder than he would’ve thought possible as a boy. Still so handsome. _It’s me, Remus. Tell the truth._

Is it?

“I’m fine, Sirius,” he repeats, attempting a smile. “Barely feel it anymore, to be quite honest.” Sirius pauses for a moment, as though he wants to say something more, but then he just nods. It becomes another one of the many conversations they do not have.

***

Moonrise comes. Sirius tries once more to persuade Remus to let him go down with him. They don’t argue again, because Remus is clearly too tired, but he makes clear that his answer is no and that’s that. He clutches at furniture as he makes for the cellar and Sirius just stands there by the sofa. He wants to say something, he feels strange. Why does this feel like goodbye?

“I’m going to wait outside,” Sirius announces, following Remus up to the door. He opens it, but it’s too dark to see into the cellar behind him, bar the stone steps that lead into black. It reminds Sirius, briefly, of..something, and his stomach twists uncomfortably. He feels like saying something, but he doesn’t want a reply.

The cellar door is right next to the bedroom – he had tried to open it earlier today, during his meager exploration, and found it locked. He could’ve charmed it open, but figured that if Remus had gone to the effort of locking it in the first place, he should leave it that way. He tilts his chin up defiantly, now, and waits for Remus to contest him.

He does not. He raises a hand to the doorframe, steadying himself, and nods.

“Alright,” he decides, something like a smile. “See you tomorrow.”

He turns to descend into the dark, and Sirius almost lets him go.

He does not want for much, but he knows he won’t get it without asking. Remus is the most emotionally repressed person he’s ever known, after all. It’s half the reason he used to feel so lucky to know him.

 _“Remus,”_ he blurts out desperately, without meaning to, blood escaping a wound. Oh, _oh,_ fuck. He’s going to have to say something else now, isn’t he? Oh fuck, oh fuck. No no no, this was a mistake. Remus looks back, eyebrows raised, expectant, one hand still on the doorframe, one at his side. This is why he prefers to stay a dog, when he can. It’s safer.

Sirius leans in and takes his free hand and kisses him, and if someone was to ask him why perhaps he’d say he just wanted to see what would happen next.

Well. What happens next is this:

Remus kisses him back, for a moment. It’s a chaste kiss, but for a second there they’re kissing, and then Remus is pulling back looking both wounded and guilty. He untangles his hand from Sirius’, who snatches his own back. Something squirms in Sirius’ gut, cold and heavy. He feels dizzy, disorientated, wrung out like a damp rag.

The kiss felt like an offering when he was doing it, breaching a gap nothing else could, shoved forward. Now it just feels stupid. A bottle thrown against a wall when Remus has already left.

“Erm,” Remus begins quietly. _Shut up,_ Sirius thinks. _Just shut up. Stop talking. Stop fucking talking, all the time._ Sirius stands there, mouth slightly open, dumb.

“Can we…I’m not sure that right now is, erm. I just. I really do need to go, so perhaps we should..can we deal with this tomorrow?” Remus asks, smiling apologetically.

Sirius grunts, yes. “Sorry.”

Remus’ eyes widen. “No, don’t, I’m not..we’ll talk tomorrow? I don’t have much time.”

Sirius nods, even though he wants nothing less than to _talk,_ even though he feels sick with the thought of it. But they’ve been doing things Sirius’ way for so long now, and it won’t work this time. “S’fine.”

That is what happens.

***

The cellar door is locked and reinforced and Sirius sits against it. Waits. Stares at nothing.

This is only the second time he’s ever sat outside the door while Remus transformed. At Remus’ request, the first time had been the very first night they’d all spent with Remus, back at school, in the shack. He’d made them promise not to come in until he was done turning, and retrospectively, having now seen the transformation many, many times, Sirius understands why.

He had sat against the door then, too. Guarding. He remembers it vividly: he looks to his right and he can see Peter, young and round-faced, cross-legged on the floor beside him, twisting his hands in his lap. He’d kept glancing over at James – who’s also there, sitting upright to Sirius’ left – as if waiting for him to call the whole thing off. _Hoping,_ the little coward. Sirius had watched as James had met his stare, face set, determined and brave in that singularly James Potter way of his. Peter had wilted under the look. And then it had begun, in the room behind them.

Here, now, Sirius still flinches when Remus screams. He never did get used to that sound. Some things, he understands, never become easier. He doubts it has become easier for Remus either, even though he’d claim it has.

The screaming and the snapping gives way to a silence, and then there’s a low growl, and finally a howl. Sirius considers, just for a moment, going down there. Would Remus forgive him if he did? Maybe not. Probably not. He tilts his head back until it meets the door. Breathe in, breathe out.

_Oh, Moony. What do we do now?_

He doesn’t go down.

***

and i know that someday soon i’ll see you

but now you’re out of sight

and you’ll kiss me like you used to

in the january night.

**Author's Note:**

> and uh, yeah! sorry about this. i didnt plan or writing OR posting this, it purely came about because ive been listening to that song. sorry if its not great. i think sometimes i spend so much time thinking about all the ways my stuff isnt good and obsessing over trying to improve it, and i didnt do that this time, so if its a bit rough around the edges, that'll be why. thanks!  
> -ridi


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